Three months later
by teddy305
Summary: A short unfinished ficlet I started almost 2 years ago. I might take it up again if people like it.


John was restlessly pacing around 221B Baker Street, collecting the few things he had left there when the truck picked up the rest yesterday. It was time to find a new place to stay, one without memories that haunted him at night. Finally, he sat down and stared around the room. It seemed terribly empty with all of his things gone, but Sherlock's were still there because Mycroft hadn't found the time to take away his dead little brother's stuff. Only thinking of Mycroft made John mad again. He could have stopped this madness if he had kept his mouth shut in front of Moriarty, but Mycroft was too interested in the things the consulting criminal could offer him to consider the danger that telling Sherlock's complete life history to his nemesis held.  
John's gaze lingered on his friend's violin, the one he used to play when he needed to think, or simply to enrage others. He picked the instrument up from the pile of carton boxes and lowered himself in the seat again. He sat there, staring at the violin, polishing it with his sleeve and remembering life with Sherlock. He couldn't tell for how long he remained in that position, thinking of the way Sherlock used to walk and talk, the way smiled knowingly, always five steps ahead of the others. But that hadn't helped him in the end, had it? He died in disgrace, with everyone believing he was a fake and a charlatan, and most considered the fact that he committed suicide the final proof for that. But John knew better. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't lie to him, or he believed it at least, because John was the closest to a friend Sherlock had, and Sherlock was the best friend John ever had. For Sherlock, he set aside all his relationships, he ignored his work and spent all of his free time working on the website, or solving cases Sherlock couldn't be bothered with. After all the time they spent living together it became natural for John to think about Sherlock's needs just as often as his own. He helped with the housework, did the shopping whenever Sherlock wasn't in the mood to do it on his own and listened to him in every situation. Sherlock drove him mad, and he loved that about him; he made his life a mess, and John couldn't imagine having it any other way, because Sherlock had crept under his skin, he became part of John's life, the best part.  
And now it was all gone. In the blink of an eye his life got turned upside-down. His world fell apart when he saw Sherlock jump of the roof of St Bart's, his arms waving as he came closer to the ground. And then it was over. A crowd started to form around his body, barring John's sight, and when he finally fought his way to his friend's body, it was too late.

The worst part of Sherlock's death were the stories that formed around it; how he couldn't deal with being distinguished as the criminal and faker he was, so he chose to take his own life, how the mastermind was just faux, how he lied to everyone. But John didn't believe them; he didn't believe that his friend would lie to him. Not even when Sherlock told him in his final phone call that it was all a lie. It's all a part of a greater scheme of his, John was certain, but as the months passed he became less and less sure about that.

A creak from the main door shook John out of his thoughts and he realized he was still clutching the violin tight to his chest, the way he wanted to hold on to the memory of its owner. John laid the instrument aside and listened to the careful steps in the hall. It wasn't Mrs. Hudson; that much was certain because these steps were lighter and more urgent than hers. _Look at me; analyzing people by the way they walk. I suppose that comes from spending too much time with Sherlock Holmes. _–John thought. The intruder ,however, was coming closer and there was no time left to consider who it might be. John leaned back, waiting for the moment the door opens. When it did, there was no room for doubt, it was Sherlock Holmes standing at the doorstep.


End file.
